


Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

by kedgeree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has left John all alone on a hot summer night. But John doesn't stay alone for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Was That Masked Man?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888974) by [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna). 



> For the 2015 Sherlock Remix Challenge, a remix of HiddenLacuna's wonderful, mischievous, sexy fic [Who Was That Masked Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1888974).
> 
> Thanks to all who gave a beta look over the draft: involuntaryorange, Passeriform, and Jaradel.

John is spread out on top of his cotton sheets like a starfish, thin white vest and boxers clinging to his salty-damp skin. He's opened his bedroom window, but the night air is thick and heavy as dog's breath.  
  
As exhausted as he is—and it has been a long, sticky mess of a day—John refuses to give in to sleep under these miserable conditions. He growls back at the heat and curls his body up and out of bed, padding down the stairs to the sitting room. It's cooler here, a level down, and Sherlock's room might even offer the hope of a cross-breeze, but John is determined to sleep in his own often-neglected bed. He won't sleep in  _their_  bed alone.  
  
Sherlock is probably cool as ice right now. Mycroft likely has him set up in a nice shivery-cold air-conditioned hotel suite where he can huddle into his bloody Belstaff on his bloody secret mission in bloody Brussels and John thought they were past bloody haring off and  _leaving John behind_.  
  
So, no, John is not sleeping in Sherlock's bed. Hot as balls and often-neglected he may be, but he is ending this day on  _his_  terms.  
  
John's feet hit the treads perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary as he climbs the stairs to his room again bearing an oscillating fan, a deep bowl of water, and a flannel.  
  
He strips out of his vest and underwear and climbs naked back into bed, propping himself up against his pillow so he can set the bowl of water between his thighs. He lowers the flannel into the bowl and sighs at the cool caress of cloth floating between his fingers. The fan persuades the lethargic air in the room to move, stirring the curtains and the short fringe of John's hair.  
  
_That’s right, my terms_ , he tells the day, tells the night, and lifts the dripping flannel. Fat droplets of water splash into the nest of hair at his groin, pool in the soft creases of his abdomen, and trickle down his chest as he lifts the cloth to his neck. He tips his head back, presses the flannel to his throat, and squeezes, sighing relief at the gush of cool water released. It runs over his shoulders, tickles his ribs, trickles into his armpits. Tiny hairs on his skin start to rise and he shivers with satisfaction.  _My way_. Satisfaction that curls low in his belly as the edge of the flannel brushes his thigh, the crease of his hip.  
  
It might just be satisfaction. Or it might be the physical sensations that make him start to get hard, swelling in the heat. It might still be anger. John doesn't really care. He moves the water bowl to the bedside table, wraps the cloth firmly around his cock and pulls, dragging the teeth of the fabric over his skin. It's good. Wet and rough and good. He spreads his legs wider and brings the cloth lower. It's going to be just the way he likes it.  
  
On the rooftop outside, there's a shuffling sound and a creak. Like a footfall.  
  
John can move quickly. John can be silent. He has his SIG readied and is backing, crouched low, into the darkest corner of the room when the figure of a man moves from the shadows of the rooftop to the ledge into the frame of his window.  
  
Silhouetted by the purple haze of street light, the figure turns his head left and right, looking in, then pushes the curtains aside and eases his body gracefully, quietly into the room. He's tall, John can see when the man straightens. Long-limbed. Dressed like he doesn't feel the heat: dark clothing, a hood pulled up over his head, and gloves. The man's face is in shadow, just a glint of light across angles of nose and jaw, high cheekbone and full mouth hinting at his appearance.  
  
John huffs a surprised breath and shifts his aim a couple degrees safely to the right.  
  
He steps out of the shadow, weapon raised. "On your knees", he says, oh so softly, "or I  _will_  shoot."  
  
The man doesn't move, but a flicker of reflected light suggests the shift of his eyes, looking John—in all his glory, weapon raised—up and down.  
  
John puts a little more steel into his voice, because it hadn't been a request. "I  _said_  on your knees."  
  
The figure obeys just slowly enough to make his own point—he's not afraid. From the angle of his head, he's not looking at John's face any more, either.  
  
John takes a slow step forward. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"It's hot." The man's voice is barely louder than a whisper.  
  
"That isn't an answer."  
  
"Saw your curtains blowing. Must have a bit of breeze, yeah?" His accent is strange, drifting towards East London, but still not quite identifiable. Obviously disguised. Almost ridiculously so. "Thought I might cool off."  
  
"Whilst you were out for a midnight rooftop stroll?"  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"There are easier ways to break in."  
  
There's a quick flash of white, a smile. Cocky. "Too many cameras on the street."  
  
"Shy, are we?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Hardly worth your effort. There's nothing here you would want."  
  
"Oh." He shifts his weight forward. "There is."  
  
"Stay where you are." John sets a firmer stance, gun arm relaxed but strong. He has not let his aim drift. "Hands behind your head."  
  
The man settles back, hips to heels, and raises his hands slowly. "You going to turn me in?"  
  
"You've disturbed my sleep. Why shouldn't I?"  
  
"Oh, but you wasn't sleeping," the man says slyly.  
  
John laughs, soft and nowhere close to shamed. "You're right. I wasn't."  
  
"Seems a proper shame, man like you doesn't have someone doing that for him."  
  
If anything, John's cock has only gotten harder since this stranger slipped into his room, and what does that say about him? He's fully erect now, blood thrumming. The air from the fan tickles the backs of his thighs.  
  
"I think you're right about that."  
  
"If you don't turn me in…" the man prompts suggestively.  
  
A bead of sweat creeps down the back of John's spine. "Say it."  
  
"If you don't turn me in," the whispered voice drops, takes on a gravelly quality, wet and rough, "I could keep you company. Lend a hand."  
  
John's bookshelf is in arm's reach, and he sets the SIG carefully on the top shelf. "A hand? That the best you can do?"  
  
The man licks his lips.  
  
John steps forward and pushes the head of his prick into the man's open mouth.  
  
The man sways on his knees, groans around him, and reaches for John's hips.  
  
"No," John grabs his wrists, forcing the gloved hands back behind the man's head. "Tonight is  _my way_."  
  
The man pants once, a hot exhalation of surprise, John's cock a heavy weight on his tongue, and then swallows John down.  
  
John will take that as an acceptance of his terms.  
  
"Yes," he hisses, and thrusts forward. The man rocks backwards and John slides his hands under his hood, pushing it back and pushing his hands into the man's hair. It's thick and damp with perspiration. "Take that off," John orders.  
  
The stranger keeps his lips around John's cock, his tongue moving, sliding and curling, while he struggles out of the heavy hoodie. It slips away from strong, pale shoulders, a long line of neck, and falls to the floor. John can smell the man's body, heat and fresh sweat, the musky scent stirred by his movement, by the movement of air around him.  
  
"Good." John curls his fingers into the man's hair, holding the head steady, and rocks his hips, rocks himself in and out of that hot, wet, compliant mouth. "God, so good." John squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back and breathes, "Use your hands now."  
  
Leather slides over John's skin, gloved hands around his hips, and then leather-covered fingertips dragging through the sweat coating the small of his back and dipping down into the crease of his arse.  
  
"Take a breath," John warns, terse, tight, and then pulls the man forward by his hair until the tip of his nose is buried in wiry hair and his softly-stubbled chin is pressed to John's bollocks. John comes down his throat.  
  
When he's finished, John walks backwards, legs shaky, so he can lean against the wall to catch his breath. The dark figure, still on his knees, is panting for air, too. They stay like that, silent, in the shadows, breathing.  
  
Finally the man reaches for his hoodie. "I should go." His voice comes out raspy.  
  
"No. Not yet."  
  
The man stills.  
  
John pushes himself away from the wall, forward again until he can reach out and run a thumb along the man's cheekbone. Gentle. Soft. "You wanted to cool off."  
  
"You've already given me a drink."  
  
John turns away to hide his smirk and walks to the bedside table. "Stand up," he says over his shoulder as he collects the water bowl. He brings it to set at the man's booted feet and straightens holding the wet cloth. He draws it, as he had done for himself, along the man's collarbones, sending water running down his bare chest.  
  
A deep, fluttering sound escapes the man's throat, half laugh, half moan. "You're very accommodating."  
  
The man's tangle of curly hair is backlit, tipped purple and silver, but his face is still in shadow. John knows the light is on his own face, though, and he lets the man see his eyes, worried and steadfast as they always are. "Yeah. Sometimes I am." He hooks a finger into the waistband of the man's jeans and pulls out to make a gap that he wrings the wet flannel into.  
  
"Oh!" The man jerks and shivers and reaches for John reflexively, but lets his arms drop again at John's sound of warning.  
  
John smiles his approval and slides a hand between the man's legs. Water-damp pants and partly-damp jeans and a warm, hard length beneath responding beautifully to John's touch. He presses his palm in more firmly, tightens his grip, lets his other hand trace taut muscles under sticky skin. His touch is answered with a ragged groan and John puts his open mouth against the man's collarbone and inhales.  
  
"Lie down," he breathes out and is hastily obeyed. In fact, the man falls like a tree.  
  
John opens the man's jeans. It's time for the flannel again. "You saw me," John says, "you know this feels good." And he wraps the cloth around the man's cock, wraps his hand around, and starts to stroke. Long legs squirm underneath him, and John straddles firm thighs, trapping his midnight visitor. He works his cock with cloth and hand and finally his mouth until the man arches his back, gasps, "John!" and comes.  
  
John strokes the man's long flanks until his breathing returns to normal, and then isn't it convenient that John has a flannel in hand to clean off his semen-spattered belly. He smiles and soothes and is gentle, then slides up to press a kiss against full, parted lips.  
  
"I thought you might be angry," the man says hesitantly. "About—"  
  
"About a little break in?" John smiles, leans close to the man's ear, kisses it, and whispers, "You can leave the way you came in. I'm sure you have places to be."  
  
He drops the flannel onto the man's chest and walks calmly from the room and down the stairs.  
  
It really is much cooler in Sherlock's room. Sleep comes easily.


End file.
